


A Knight in Shining... Clubwear?

by LostCol



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: And He Knows It, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Sexual Assault, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Protective Brian Kinney (Queer as Folk), What-If, slightly soft Brian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25641688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostCol/pseuds/LostCol
Summary: What if the night Justin found out Ethan cheated, he went to Babylon, went home with the wrong trick, and Brian showed up?
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 116





	A Knight in Shining... Clubwear?

**Author's Note:**

> I tagged this dub-con because even though what the trick says did and didn’t happen is true, Brian and Justin don’t have any way of knowing that for sure. And there is non-con drug use.  
> Bonus: Brian will find out about the Sap’s party! I’m telling you because I have a sneaking suspicion that Brian’s reaction in this was heavily inspired by another fic I read, so if it sounds like something you’ve read (or written), it was not intentional, let me know in the comments!

As a general rule, I don’t hook up with tricks I meet online at their place. I don’t like giving up the home court advantage, and, maybe more importantly, for all the shit I gave Justin after Jason Kemp was killed, mocking him for being nervous and throwing the danger right back in his face (douchebag move, yeah, I know), I’m well aware that it’s generally fucking stupid to hand yourself over like that to someone you’ve never even laid eyes on.

But whatever-the-fuck, the trick was saying all the right things, and I’d had a long, shit day at work and wasn’t in the mood to deal with Mikey and the Merry Men at Babylon, so that’s how I found myself knocking on the door of the (very originally named…) _wellhung10_ that Friday night.

We were off to a solid start when he opened the door and turned out to be just as hot in person as he’d appeared online. Never a guarantee. As he stepped back to let me in, he smirked and said, “Brian Kinney. Liberty Avenue legend. I have a special treat for you.”

That gave me pause, so I just quirked an eyebrow and waited for him to elaborate. I’m used to random tricks knowing who I am – they usually do, let’s not kid ourselves – but we hadn’t discussed anything unusual when we’d set this up, so—

“Your foray into courtship was shocking to everyone, but I thought of one positive thing. Now that it’s over… we can share.”

Okay, what the fuck? Share what?

“Oh?”

I was getting impatient, and seriously starting to regret not just hitting up the baths.

Irritatingly, his answer was just a cocky smile and a raised eyebrow, and then he turned and gestured toward the bed, which was, it turned out, behind a slatted partition across the open room. I thought I could see someone lying on the bed through the slats, so I assumed he was proposing a threesome. And okay, that I could handle. As long as everyone involved is hot and into it, a surprise threesome isn’t exactly a turnoff.

Since I’m nothing if not adventurous, I happily followed when he started walking in the direction of the bedroom area. The closer we got, the more of the tableau I could make out, and I was a little confused. The guy on the bed was naked and seemed to be sleeping on his stomach on top of the comforter. I wondered if the trick had already fucked him, and I wondered who the trick thought of the three of us would do what to whom. Them having already fucked wasn’t necessarily a problem, as long as everyone was ready for another go around, but I did feel a twinge of irritation that they wouldn’t necessarily be in top form.

I glanced at the trick, who was hanging back now and had an oddly expectant look on his face, and I started to feel like I was missing something. Was this not just a standard threesome?

And then, well.

I rounded the partition and finally had an unobstructed view of the bed and the person lying on it, and everything flashed white. Bile rose in my throat and a surge of panic sent me rushing to Justin’s side.

“FUCK!”

I put my hands on his warm back and soft hair, and when he didn’t stir, either at my voice or my touch, it dawned on me like a punch to the gut that he wasn’t just sleeping.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!” I shouted, furious and shocked, and I whirled around and pushed the trick against the wall, hard.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO HIM?! DID YOU RAPE HIM?”

I could barely think as my mind raced through a million horrible possibilities, assaulting me with wholly unwelcome images of Justin scared and confused and in pain, but my two main concerns at that moment were that he’d been raped, and that he wasn’t drugged but knocked out. I knew it wasn’t likely, but with his history of head trauma, the fear burning a hole in my stomach made me consider all the worst-case scenarios.

The asshole was standing stunned and wide-eyed against the wall, giving me a brief flash of dark satisfaction, but he didn’t seem capable of answering my questions right then, his mouth gaping wordlessly, the idiot, so I let go of him and climbed onto the bed.

I brushed the hair off Justin’s forehead – it was a lot longer than the last time I’d touched it eight months ago (Christ, had it been that long?) – and inspected his head as much as I could for blood or bruising. I didn’t find any, and he was breathing normally and wasn’t any paler than usual (or gray, or greenish), so I let myself feel a tiny bit of relief.

The trick finally started sputtering when I sat back on my heels, blathering something about, “I didn’t hurt him, I swear. It was just roofies! He’ll… he’ll sleep it off. I thought you’d like it…”

At a complete loss, I spared him a shocked glance.

“I saw him at Babylon, and I knew who he was, and, well… I thought it’d be fun. I thought you’d like it…” he said again, weakly. Why the fuck did he keep saying that? “Everyone knows how he left you at the Rage party…” Fuck, was he trying to _defend himself?_

Ignoring him, because I couldn’t even begin to process that shit, I turned back to Justin and continued inspecting him, running my hands lightly down his body to feel for, what, marks? Broken bones? Christ, I wasn’t even sure. When I got to his thighs, I saw what looked like nail marks and red discoloration, and my heart dropped into my stomach as I gently pulled his thighs apart to stare at the scratches and bruising marring his pale skin.

Silently, I looked from Justin’s damaged thighs to the trick with murder in my eyes, and the trick, visibly scared now _(good)_ , stammered out, “I didn’t rape him, I swear! We had sex before he passed out, and it was rough, but it was consensual, I swear, Brian--”

Oh hell no.

“DON’T YOU _FUCKING_ SAY MY NAME.”

I rolled Justin onto his back, swallowing around the lump that formed in my throat when I felt how limp he was, his limbs sprawling across the bed when I got him turned over. I’d obviously seen him asleep hundreds of times, including (more times than I’d like to admit) flopped right on top of me, but I was suddenly flashing back to the only other time I’d seen him unresponsive and helpless and vulnerable like this…

…

Okay, no. The last thing I needed right then was to spiral down that rabbit hole of despair, so I mentally slapped myself, forcing my focus back to the present, and scanned the front of his body. I felt another tiny bit of relief when I didn’t find any visible injuries. At least I wouldn’t be spending the night at the hospital. And yes, there were obviously arguments to be made for taking him anyway, but… I couldn’t do that to him if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, okay?

I just knew I needed to get him the fuck out of there before I ripped the asshole’s head off, the asshole who was still standing, fidgeting, uselessly against the wall, but I wasn’t sure how to go about it with him completely out like that. I laced my fingers through his and pressed our hands against his chest, cupped my other hand around the side of his face and traced my thumb back and forth along his cheekbone.

I said, “Hey, Sunshine,” a little louder than was strictly necessary, “we gotta go, open your eyes.”

But they remained stubbornly closed, no matter how hard I willed them to open. Not even a flutter, or a twitch. His lips parted slightly as he continued breathing deeply and steadily, trapped in his drug-induced slumber.

Without looking away from Justin’s face, I barked at the trick to get me a bag –

“What ki—”

“Any fucking bag!” –

and after he’d scurried off, I grabbed Justin’s familiar club clothes off the floor. Shaking the memory of the countless nights we’d spent out together from my head, I slid his jeans up his legs, buttoned the fly, then carefully sat him up, one arm behind his shoulders, one hand cradling the back of his head, and propped him against my chest so I could get his jacket on, gently pulling one limp arm and then the other through the sleeves. I laid him back down, zipped the jacket, then snatched the proffered shopping bag from the asshole’s outstretched hand and shoved Justin’s tank top, briefs, socks, and sneakers into it. No need to put the kid’s entire wardrobe back on when I was just going to undress him back at the loft anyway.

I climbed off the bed and forced _wellhung10_ to flush his roofies down the toilet, punched him in the face, and pushed him to the floor with a dire warning about what he had coming to him if he ever drugged someone again, or came within screaming distance of Justin. I wanted to do more, obviously, much _much_ more, but I couldn’t ignore the nagging urgency to get Justin out of there, and anyway, I knew where the asshole lived now. I could always come back.

I slung the bag with Justin’s clothes over my arm, carefully lifted him off the bed, and, cradling his still completely limp body against my chest, hurried back to my car. I got Justin buckled into the passenger seat and drove back to the loft with my hand resting on his thigh. I told myself it was for him, that it would comfort him if he woke up, but let’s be honest. It was for me and my goddamn pounding heart.

I barely remember the drive home, but I sure as hell remember pulling him out of the car, because when I jostled him getting my arms around him, he _fucking finally_ showed signs of life, moaning softly and sliding his arms up to wrap them weakly around my neck. His eyes were still annoyingly closed, but now that he was no longer completely lifeless, I felt lightheaded with relief. I sagged against the car and squeezed him to me. With the heady mixture of relief and adrenaline coursing through me, I don’t even remember how I got us up to the loft – into the building, into and out of the freight elevator, through the heavy-ass sliding door – considering how full of Justin my arms were.

But apparently I managed, and when I finally laid him down, I stood there for a minute looking at him, safe on my bed, safe in my loft. Safe with _me_. And I realized I hadn’t taken a deep breath since I’d realized it was him lying on that asshole’s bed.

I went back down to close and lock the door, set the alarm, and grab a bottle of water from the fridge in case he woke up thirsty. I had no idea what a roofie hangover felt like, but I assumed it wasn’t pleasant. 

Stepping back up into the bedroom, I stopped short when I saw that his eyes were half open, lazily scanning the room. When they came to rest on me, they were glassy and unfocused, and he looked at me like he couldn’t quite figure out who I was. I may not have ever been roofied, but I’d had plenty of experience with drug-induced stupors, and I knew he might not remember anything in the morning, but, still. I didn’t want to freak the kid out, especially if he wasn’t sure where he was or who he was with. Trying not to startle him, I sat down slowly on the edge of the bed and said softly, “Hey, Sunshine.”

He stared up at me lazily, his eyes still unfocused.

“We’re going to get you into something more comfortable, then you can go back to sleep. Sound good?”

I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, because he still looked skeptical as hell, but he finally gave me a small nod. I’d planned to undress him and put him under the covers whether he was conscious or not, but since he’d sort of woken up, I figured I should at least sort of include him in the taking-care-of-Justin process, right?

Have I mentioned I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing?

It became obvious pretty quickly that despite tacitly agreeing to my plan, he wasn’t intending to make any effort to help. He stared up at me in a daze while I unbuttoned and pulled off his jeans, then unzipped his jacket. I pulled him up and let him slump against my chest while I pushed his jacket off his shoulders and dropped it over the side of the bed, and then I wrapped my arm around his back to hold him to me while I pulled down the comforter.

I glanced at his face when I laid him back down, to check on him I guess, and my stomach dropped when I saw that he’d been dragged back under. His eyes were closed and his face was slack, and he didn’t move or make a sound when I pulled the comforter the rest of the way down under his legs. It occurred to me then that, best case scenario, he was going to wake up confused and miserable, he didn’t need to also have to deal with finding himself naked in his… ex’s? Okay, sure, fine, ex’s, bed. I grabbed his briefs out of the bag I’d dropped on the floor and slid them on before pulling up the covers.

I stood halfway up before I sank back down, and I brushed the hair off his forehead before resting the back of my hand against his forehead and cheek. I knew it was stupid, because it’s not like roofies give you a fever, but it was still weirdly reassuring that he didn’t feel warm.

And I wasn’t exactly in my wheelhouse here. The last time he was sick at the loft, I’d tossed him a bottle of cold medicine and a package of cough drops and gone to Babylon, so… I figured I might as well be thorough this time. Make up for that dick move last winter a little bit? He’d told me to go, to be clear, because I’d hesitated, because I’d known I should have stayed with him. He’d looked so young with his flushed cheeks, and red-rimmed eyes, and messy hair. He’d still had lines on his face from where it’d been smashed into his pillow during his nap earlier, and he was wrapped up in the comforter in the dead center of the bed, surrounded by a sprinkling of balled up tissues. I should have stayed to get him refills of his disgusting purple Gatorade and make him toast and rub his back. And because I could see and hear Jennifer scolding me for abandoning her poor sick baby. But it was just a cold, and he wasn’t a fucking child, and I’d had plans with Mikey.

So, you know. Hindsight.

I pried myself off the bed after a few more minutes wallowing in guilt, and as I moved around the loft – picking up and folding Justin’s clothes, turning off the lights, brushing my teeth, undressing – I wondered for the first time where the fuck Ethan was and why Justin was out tricking. I knew about the record deal and the conditions of it, knew that it effectively screwed their relationship no matter which way they played it, whether they realized it yet or not. But I hadn’t heard anything about them breaking up, and with the gossip queens our friends are, even with their recent pathetic efforts to not mention darling Sunshine in front of me – and seriously, did they think I hadn’t noticed? – I’m sure I would have heard _something_.

But even if I’d known they were still solid, I never would have called the fucking fiddler and handed Justin off to him. Christ, I’m the one who knows how to take care of him, and I don’t trust _Ian_ as far as I can throw him. I mean, what if Justin woke up with a panic attack in the middle of the night and got violent because he was confused and scared? What if he wandered out of bed still half-drugged and hurt himself falling over something in the dark? No, no way in suburban mall on a Saturday hell did I trust Ethan to keep Justin safe when he was incapacitated like this.

And honestly, I’m self-aware enough to know that I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to hand the kid off, whether I trusted the fiddler or not. I’d missed Justin, of fucking course I had. Just… being with him. So goddamn much it actually physically hurt sometimes. I hadn’t thought it possible, I’d always scoffed at those lovesick suckers claiming physical pain from a broken heart. _Ugh._ But then Justin moved out and I couldn’t find any other reason for the bone-deep fatigue and stress headaches I was suddenly dealing with.

Not that I’m saying the kid broke my heart, obviously, that’s ridiculous.

But yeah, I’d liked having him around.

And now, lying next to him in bed, it all came rushing back. And I finally felt like I could relax, knowing he was safe. Knowing he wasn’t stumbling back to that shithole hovel he was living in, drunk and drugged and alone.

I watched him breathe for a few minutes, wondering if I should turn him onto his side. I wasn’t sure how deeply unconscious he was, or exactly how much he’d had to drink, or whether he was in danger of vomiting in his sleep. And since I was exhausted, the adrenaline from earlier completely out of my system, and I wasn’t sure if I would wake up if Justin were choking beside me, godfuckingforbid, I didn’t know why I was even considering taking the risk. I sat up and rolled him onto his side, arranging his arms and legs in a comfortable position, and when he didn’t so much as twitch or moan while I was doing that, I figured I’d made the right call.

I lay back down facing him and hesitated for a second before giving in to the urge to cup his face in my hand and run my thumb back and forth across his cheekbone. (If no one was there to see a horrific display of sentimentality, it didn’t count, right?) His skin was just as soft and warm as it always was, back when I could touch it any time I wanted. And shit, I could have kicked myself for taking that for granted.

I fell asleep watching him breathe.

>>>>>>>>>

I jolted awake around eight the next morning, my heart pounding for a minute while my brain cycled through the events of last night. My body calmed down when I turned to find Justin still fast asleep beside me. He’d rolled onto his stomach during the night, and one arm was stretched out toward me with his hand resting on my stomach.

Carefully, so I wouldn’t wake him, I wrapped my fingers around his wrist and placed his hand on the mattress before I slid out of bed. I let my fingers linger for a tad longer than was strictly necessary. Clearly, I was taking every chance I could to touch the kid. And clearly, I was choosing to ignore how pathetic that was. I knew it was going to hurt that much more when he left again after having had this night to remind me of everything I’d lost. Everything I’d been trying to tell myself (and everyone else) I wasn’t missing. But I’d known it was a load of bullshit, and my apparent inability to keep my hands off the kid just confirmed that.

I took a piss, brushed my teeth, and splashed some water on my face, and I was in the kitchen putting on a pot of coffee and worrying about how Justin was going to react to all this when I heard him stirring. Sounding utterly confused, he called out “B-Brian?” in a shaky voice. I didn’t think he remembered anything of last night, I just assumed he’d looked around himself and realized where he was.

I climbed to the top of the stairs and leaned against the door frame, keeping my distance so I wouldn’t make him uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable than he undoubtedly already was.

“Hey, Sunshine. How’s your head?”

At its mention, he brushed his fingers across his forehead and looked up at me with an expression that managed to convey fear and embarrassment and disorientation all at once. Fear and disorientation, because he obviously didn’t know what the hell was going on, and embarrassment, because, presumably, rationally, he thought he _should_ have some inkling of what the hell was going on.

“Uh, pounding, actually.”

His voice came out weak and raw, poor kid, so I gestured to the water bottle and he picked it up and took a long drink, relief spreading across his face. He wiped a stray drop of water off his bottom lip with his thumb and then licked his thumb dry, and I didn’t realize I was staring until he cleared his throat _(shit, stop staring, idiot)_ and asked, “Um… so… I should probably know this, but… what the fuck is going on?”

I studied him for a minute and saw no recognition in his eyes.

“What do you remember?”

“Uhhh… I went to Babylon…” he trailed off for a second, blushing and picking at the comforter. Huh. Well, we could circle back to that. “And… I remember some guy’s apartment. I guess I left with someone, but… shit. I can’t… I don’t remember anything after that.” 

I waited another second to see if he’d go on, but when I saw fear flash across his face, I nodded.

“Okay. Well, I can fill in some of the night for you.”

So I told him everything I knew. That the trick recognized him at Babylon and picked him up, brought him back to his apartment; that they had sex and somewhere in there the trick offered him a drink; that he accepted the drink – and here I veered off into bitching at him for being a naive trusting idiot for a few minutes – and that the trick hunted me down online to… _share_ him.

“I don’t know if that was his plan all along, before he even approached you at Babylon, or if he just thought you were hot and then thought of it later. And I have no idea why he thought I’d be into it,” I said, scowling. I mean, is that really how people saw me? As the kind of guy who would get off on gang-raping my unconscious ex-whatever-the-fuck they all thought Justin was to me? Jesus fucking Christ.

“He insisted he didn’t rape you. But since you don’t remember, and you were already out of it when I got there, I can’t be sure. You have bruises and scratches on your thighs.” I knew I sounded pissed, and damn right I was pissed. “I’ll take you to get tested if you want. If you want me to take you, I mean, you’re obviously getting tested.”

The whole time I was talking, Justin picked at the bedspread, staring at me with a face that flitted from scared to angry to sick to embarrassed and back again.

“So, I brought you back here to sleep it off. To keep an eye on you.” I shrugged and glanced away. _Ugh, 'to keep an eye on you'?_

“You didn’t call Ethan?” he finally asked, sounding almost afraid that I had. Hmm. Maybe there _was_ trouble in paradise. I scoffed, but I managed to bite back the sarcastic comment that’d been ready to spill out of my mouth.

“No.”

Justin watched me and nodded slowly. “Shit, Brian. I’m--”

“Don’t apologize for what that asshole did.”

“No, you’re right, I just… I don’t know what to say. Or think. Shit. I just… Fuck.”

“Yeah, that’s about where I am.”

…

“But seriously, how do you feel? Drink the rest of that water, I’ll grab you some aspirin. I put coffee on, you want coffee?”

I was rambling, desperate suddenly to get out of there, so I fled into the bathroom to grab the aspirin. I just needed to get out of his sight for a minute to compose myself, because Christ, this kid had such a fucking hold on me, even then.

I leaned on the counter and stared at myself in the mirror, and while I was busy trying to will myself to calm the fuck down, he raised his voice slightly and called, “Did you… did I ask to come here? How out of it was I?”

I’d been hoping to avoid this, but when has Justin ever let me avoid talking about something I didn’t want to fucking talk about?

Never is the answer, in case you didn’t get that. Never.

So I sucked in a breath, put on my big boy pants, and went back out to the bedroom, tossing the aspirin bottle next to him on the bed.

After his reaction to not remembering the bashing, how losing the memory fucked him up almost as badly as the bat had, I knew better than to lie or sugarcoat it, as much as the side of me that ached to wrap the kid in blankets wanted to. On the other hand, knowing exactly how bad it had been might convince him to be more careful, to tap into a fucking _ounce_ of that apparently dormant sense of self-preservation I _knew_ must be lurking somewhere in that otherwise brilliant head of his, so…

“I dragged your dead weight back here. Couldn’t exactly consult you about where you wanted to go.”

He stared at me.

Well, he asked.

“I was…”

“You were… dead to the world. Like…

…

…

… you know, that night.”

He flinched, and I wondered for a second if I’d gone too far, but he needed to know.

“Shit, that must have been--”

“It was fucking scary, yeah. You fucking scared the shit out of me, Justin. He could have done anything to you, and you couldn’t have done a goddamn thing to stop him.”

“I’m… I’m sorry—”

“Not your fault,” I said with a shrug. Which wasn’t even true, it sort of was his fault for being a naïve trusting bastard. Especially after everything he’s been through, the kid’s a fucking magnet for pain, you’d think he’d keep that in mind. But on the other hand, I guess I’m kind of glad he doesn’t, because no one wants him becoming as jaded and cynical as I am. Least of all me.

And I needed that fucking conversation to be over.

I turned and went back to the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee while he pulled on his clothes and followed. I silently handed him a mug – black, how he likes it – and he sat on a stool at the counter sipping it and cradling it in his (slightly trembling) hands, so I leaned back against the counter across from him to drink mine. I ran my eyes over him, trying to gauge how he was handling the shituation we were in. He’s a tough kid, god knows I know he’s a tough kid, but why wasn’t he falling apart? Was he in shock? Or had he just been beaten down so many times – by Hobbs, by his asshole father, by St. James, by… me, maybe by the fucking fiddler – that he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore?

 _Fuck._ Shit. I really fucking hoped not.

It didn’t seem like he was in any rush to break the silence though, sitting there fidgeting while I watched him drink his coffee, so when my mug was empty, I caved and did it myself. With my usual finesse, of course.

“So are you… What are you… Jesus you’ve got to tell me what you’re thinking. Where’s your head?”

He sighed and looked into his mug, tipping it a bit from side to side.

“I don’t know, Brian. I don’t know what to think. I’m freaked out. And… embarrassed. I know I’m an idiot for taking a drink from a trick, okay? I know that. And probably for going home with one in the first place, even though you do it all. the. time. But at the same time… I just want to forget about it, even though I know I won’t be able to. And you stopped anything really bad from happening, right? So I don’t even know how freaked I _should_ be right now.” He paused and took a breath. “And I hate – I _fucking hate_ – that I’m happy that I’m here with you this morning, because Ethan has… Ethan’s not great at dealing with me when I’m fucked up. I mean, he tries, but… But you know how I am, and what I need, and you just… know how to deal with me, and I don’t have to explain. Or, you know, censor myself. Or… no, not happy, exactly. Relieved, I guess?”

So Sunshine felt safe with me even though, when it came down to it, this all happened _because_ of me? Christ, maybe he _was_ in shock.

Without saying anything, I walked around the counter and wrapped my arms around him, because whatever, I couldn’t _not_ anymore, and fuck, his hair was so fucking silky where it brushed against my chin. To my enormous relief, he heaved a huge sigh (of relief? defeat?) and wrapped his arms around my back, clinging to my shirt.

“I just want you to be safe,” I murmured into his hair. I sighed, figuring I was all in at this point, so why not just give in and look like the fucking sap I apparently am. “I want you to be happy.”

After a minute, he said, “I know you do, Brian. I’ve never doubted that.”

I squeezed him and pulled away – first, I noticed – and he looked up at me with those huge fucking eyes and asked, “… Can I get a ride home?”

_Shit, now?_

“Now? Are you sure?”

“I don’t think I can… process any more right now. I need time to work through this. Or maybe just forget about it.”

I studied him, and he didn’t seem to be exhibiting any of the common signs of shock. (I’d done a metric ton of research when he moved in after the bashing. I figured I’d already fucked him up enough, and I was terrified of making him worse. And yeah, we all know how well that worked out, but… anyway.)

His skin was warm and dry and pink. He was breathing fine. He didn’t seem dizzy or unsteady.

Okay.

I nodded and grabbed my keys and shoes while he went back to the bedroom to get the rest of his stuff. We rode down silently in the elevator, a silence he seemed content to maintain, but when we got into the corvette, I realized I might not want to assume I knew where he was living.

“Where are you living now?”

He gave me a weird look and rattled off the address of the shithole.

We were quiet for most of the ride, like we had been for most of the morning. And most of the last eight months, if you want to be technical. But now it was because Justin was staring blankly out the side window, his face expressionless enough to worry me. So, after I’d allowed the tension in the car to grow until it engulfed the whole damn thing, I swallowed my pride and asked, “Is Ethan home?” I didn’t think he was in the mood for an _Ian_ quip.

He just shot me a questioning look.

_Come on kid, help me out here._

“You don’t like being alone when… after things happen.”

“I don’t know where he is,” he said, his voice flat, and immediately turned back to the window.

_Okay…_

When I pulled up to the curb several silent minutes later, Justin made no move to get out.

“Are you sure about this? We can go back to the loft, hang out. It wouldn’t be a big deal.” _You look like you’re about to fall apart._

A few uncomfortable, silent beats later, he turned his head and gave me a tight smile, saying “I’ll be fine,” as though he were fooling anyone.

“It’s okay if you’re not.” Christ, I hoped he appreciated me stretching my emotional capacity almost to the breaking point.

He shrugged. “Can I call you if--”

“Of course,” I said immediately, relieved. “Any time. For any reason. You stupid twat,” I finished with a grin, staring out the windshield.

He smiled again, small but more natural this time, and climbed out of the car, not looking back as he entered the building. I waited long enough for him to have reached the hovel before pulling away, and I drove back to the loft thinking about the panicked, post-nightmare phone call I’d probably be getting in eighteen hours.

I’d make sure to turn up my ringer before bed.

>>>>>>>>>

At first, I wasn’t sure what woke me up. It was pitch black, the only light coming from the glowing “3:02” on my alarm clock. 3 am. Then I heard the pounding. On the loft door. _Shit._ The only people with the code to the building were Michael, Debbie (unfortunately), Lindsay, and… Justin. I shot out of bed and rushed to the door, unlocking and sliding it open in one motion. I was vaguely grateful that I’d gone to bed wearing briefs.

Sure enough, Justin was standing on the landing. He was wearing sweatpants, a hoodie, and… socks, and he looked completely distraught as he stared up at me.

Making an effort not to spook him, I reached out slowly and put my hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him into the loft before closing and locking the door. Fear leached into my stomach when I turned and got a good look at him; he was pale and sweaty, and taking quick, shallow, almost panting breaths, his shoulders going up and down with each one. I caught his wrist and said, “Hey, Sunshine. Out for a walk?” to distract him while I felt his pulse – too fast – and his skin – icy cold. Fuck. When he didn’t react to my question, I cupped his chin and tilted his head until he met my eyes.

His eyes were swimming in unshed tears, and he choked out, “I never asked if you’re okay.”

“What?”

“You fucking _saved_ me, and you took care of me, and you asked if I was okay, and I didn’t… I didn’t even think about you.”

“Justin, Jesus. Come here.”

This kid, huh?

I squeezed his shoulder and steered him toward the couch, sitting him down before I grabbed the blue blanket off the bed to wrap around him. He felt so fragile, shaking slightly under my hands and staring around the loft with giant, shining eyes.

I was trying valiantly to push aside the feelings welling up in me, but, well. Contrary to popular opinion, I’m only human.

He took a breath after a minute and tried again, his voice wobbling. “Are you okay?”

And, fuck it. I was so tired (physically obviously, but yeah, emotionally too), and I just didn’t have the energy to throw up my walls. And Justin looked like he was coming apart at the seams, and I couldn’t deny the kid the openness he’d begged me for for months. The openness he’d left me for.

“I’m okay, Sunshine.”

And I was, honestly, I was. But as much as it pained me, I knew that wasn’t good enough after the kid had come here in a panic at 3 in the morning.

I rolled my eyes at myself and laid myself bare for him.

“I was… scared when I thought you’d been hurt. And fucking furious at that asshole for hurting you, for thinking he had the right to put his filthy fucking hands on you. And… guilty. He hurt you because of me. And I’m worried because, you’re clearly not okay, and confused because where the fuck are your shoes?”

He started crying halfway through that repulsive spiel and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. I still wasn’t sure where we stood, but I know the kid’s cues, and I knew the blanket burrito was him seeking out comfort and safety. I slid closer and wrapped my arms around him, sliding one hand into the soft blonde hairs at the base of his neck that I’d so badly missed running my fingers through.

His breath hitched right before he broke down, dropping his clammy forehead against my neck and pressing close to me. I rested my chin on top of his head and rocked him back and forth a little while he struggled to pull in heaving, gulping breaths. I felt tears and snot dripping onto my chest, and I let myself bury my face in his hair while I rubbed slow circles on his back until slowly, finally, his breathing returned to normal. He sat there sniffling into my shoulder for a few more minutes, and I realized he was falling asleep when his body relaxed against mine. Not surprising, since it was the middle of the night and he was having an epic adrenaline crash.

“Come on,” I murmured, pulling him up with me, catching him when he tripped over the blanket trailing on the floor, and guiding him to the bed, my hands gripping his upper arms.

He drifted off before I’d even pulled the covers over him.

I went back down to turn off the lights and grab a bottle of water for him. I should have made him drink it before he fell asleep, after that crying jag. Oh well.

Fully embracing my pathetic streak, I laid back down on the side of the bed I still thought of as _my_ side, on top of the covers, and pulled the (slightly damp) blue blanket over myself. It smelled like him, okay? A glance at the glowing clock showed that it was 3:43 am, and I hadn’t thought I’d be able to sleep, but I was emotionally wrung out, and I was lulled soon enough by the sound of Justin breathing beside me. 

>>>>>>>>>

I woke to a gray, rainy morning. A warm breeze was blowing through the loft from the window I’d left cracked open last night, and I smiled to myself. I love that kind of weather, warm and damp. I loved it even more with Justin sprawled across my chest fast asleep, his breath hot on my skin, and I forgot for a minute about the last eight months and felt a kind of pure happiness I hadn’t felt in– oh. Right.

I dropped a kiss on top of his head and eased myself out from under him. He sighed and curled into a ball and clumsily brushed his bangs off his face without waking up. It was fucking adorable, obviously, and it made me feel things I really didn’t want to let myself feel right then, so I threw on some sweats and a tank top and went to put on the coffee.

I few minutes later, I was staring at the coffee dripping into the pot without really seeing it, racking my brain trying to figure out how to help Justin through this when we weren’t together. After the bashing, when he’d had nightmares and panic attacks and couldn’t walk down the street without attaching himself to my side, I’d had a very physical way of helping him. And I don’t just mean I fucked the panic out of him, although that did help, eventually. I’d always been a very physical person, and _we’d_ always been very physical, I mean, we were _only_ physical in the beginning. (Come on, let me live in my delusions.) So I’d hold him, and kiss him, and stroke his hair, murmur to him, and pull him into my chest, and press his forehead to my neck when all the kid needed was to shut out the world for a minute. And yes, sometimes sex was all that seemed to help when he was craving that closeness, that intimacy, that connection that made him feel safe.

But now… what could I offer him? What would he even accept?

I didn’t realize he was awake until I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard his voice. I hadn’t heard him get up, and when I startled and turned around, I was met by Justin’s worried gaze and a slightly anxious, “sorry, I said your name three times.”

I shook my head to clear it and poured two cups of coffee – when had it had time to brew? – and handed one to Justin. I grunted and said, “just thinking,” by way of explanation.

“You look better. Want to tell me how you ended up here last night?”

Might as well dive right in, right? I couldn’t get the image of him wandering around the city in a daze at 3 am – with only socks on his feet – out of my head, and I couldn’t help the note of irritation I heard in my voice. And honestly, I’d been expecting some hedging, but surprisingly, thankfully, he just sighed, looked me in the eye, and started talking.

“I couldn’t fall asleep last night, so I started going over it in my head, over and over. What could have happened, what might have happened before you arrived that we’ll never know about, what _did_ happen. And I think it didn’t really hit me until then, like I couldn’t deal with it yesterday so I just didn’t process it, and then it was quiet, and dark, and I had all this time to think, and I started to panic, so I tried to force myself to shut down. And then I felt like I was going to die –" I realized I’d raised an eyebrow when he grimaced and said, “– so basically a panic attack without the hyperventilating, yeah – so I came here… without really thinking about it, I guess. I knew… I guess I knew you wouldn’t let me die?” He let out a self-conscious chuckle. “It sounds stupid now, in the light of day, when my brain’s not fucking with me. But it felt so goddamn real last night.” He shrugged and ran his hand over the back of his neck. “And I was scared.”

I felt my expression soften – dammit it all to hell – and asked him why he hadn’t called me. He flushed and looked out the window.

“I guess I was worried about how you’d react. I thought you’d think I was overreacting and be pissed that I woke you up for nothing. I mean, it’s not like it’s your job to take care of me. But I thought if you saw me, you’d see how bad it was. And…”

“And?”

He flushed again and let out a big breath.

“And I felt like I needed to be here. I didn’t feel safe by myself, and I– I mean, I don’t mean… you know what I mean – and I knew you’d make sure I was safe. I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“It sounds like I’m using you. I don’t feel safe, so I’m gonna hassle Brian, who owes me nothing, at 3 am, so I’ll feel better. So _I’ll_ feel better.”

Sidestepping that (for the simple reason that I didn’t know what the fuck to say), I shook my head and said, “I would have picked you up. I meant it when I told you to call me any time. Come on, you know that.” I _know_ he knew that. “Honestly, I’m surprised it took you that long to freak out.”

He shot me a look, and sounded defensive when he said, “I was trying really hard not to. And I thought about how you always told me not to think about the bashing, afterward, even when I wanted to talk about it, so I thought maybe that would work this time since this was like, not even comparable to the bashing. But it just reminded me of the Sap’s party—”

He cut off suddenly, his eyes bulging out of his head as he stared at me. I stared back, narrowing mine.

“What about the Sap’s party, Justin?”

I saw on his face that he knew there was no point in resisting, that I would never let this go, because I _knew_ something happened that night. Christ, I’m not an idiot. The kid who’d been spouting off about independence, and money, and taking care of himself _the day before_ up and quit his job, with no explanation. And then he’d been twitchy the next few times we’d gone to Babylon, always had his guard up. I hadn’t pushed it at the time because I hadn’t wanted to get into another fight about me sticking my nose where it didn’t belong (according to him, anyway). Plus, I figured he was right. He was 18, why shouldn’t he take care of himself? If he wanted to tell me what happened, he would.

Of course, once he started talking, finally telling me everything he remembered from that night, up to and including hurriedly cleaning up the vomit he’d left in the bathroom before I got home the next morning, vomit he’d left when he’d stumbled into the loft still completely out of it, I kicked myself for not pushing the issue back then. I knew the Sap was a fucking sleaze, and I hadn’t wanted Justin to go to that party for that exact reason, but I wish I’d known I needed to kill the guy.

I took the news about as well as you’d expect. I yelled at the kid for not telling me when it happened, then I yelled at him for letting me continue taking him to Babylon – “We could have fucking switched clubs, Justin!” – then I yelled at him some more because I didn’t know what the hell else to do with the blind rage and fear and grief.

And even though I knew he’d one hundred percent accurately anticipated my (less than ideal) reaction, he reacted defensively when I screamed at him. Shocking, I know, that he didn’t just stand there and take it. So while I stood there, red-faced and trying to catch my breath, he let me have it.

“Brian, come on! Look, I’m sorry I kept it from you, but I’m not sorry I didn’t tell you. You know you would have gone off and fucking killed the Sap, and this isn’t some fucking movie Brian, we wouldn’t have just gone off riding into the sunset, justice served. And you _know_ I felt like I had something to prove. And with everything that had already happened, with needing you so much after the bashing, and then needing you for my tuition, and my just, fucking, daily living expenses, this just felt like one more fucking time poor little Sunshine needed to be saved.”

I was angry and afraid, and I could feel my blood rushing in my head, and I couldn’t not have my hands on him anymore, so I went around the counter in a move mirroring yesterday morning and pulled him into me roughly, crushing his face into my neck and breathing in his minty shampoo. I knew I was trembling, and I knew he could feel it, and I was embarrassed in a very vague sort of way, but I couldn’t work out if I was shaky from fear or anger or both, and I realized after a few seconds that I didn’t fucking care.

We stood like that for a while, not speaking, with Justin rubbing my back, and I thought about how sometimes it’s ridiculously obvious how wrong people are when they think it’s always _me_ taking care of _him_. Not our friends, obviously. Those smug bastards have been waxing poetic about how good Justin is for me practically since day one. Just, you know, people. My admirers on the avenue, as Debbie once called them. And I wasted some time wondering when the hell the world was going to give this sweet kid a fucking break. Wasted, because the answer was obviously never.

I finally pulled away, staying close enough to leave my hands on his shoulders, and I ducked my head so I could look him in the eye.

“Do you remember how you got here last night? Without shoes? Where—where was _Ian_?”

It made me sick to even broach the topic of the fucking fiddler, but I had to know what the hell was going on there. And how it impacted where we stood.

“I walked. I wanted to clear my head, and I didn’t realize I didn’t have shoes on until I was halfway here. I told you I felt like I was going to die, right? I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.”

“Christ, Justin, it’s miles. At 3 am.”

There was that familiar stab of fear again. Ugh, I’d forgotten how _lovely_ that feels.

The bastard just shrugged, but really, what else could he say?

“And…”

“And _Ethan_ is… a non-factor,” he said, his eyes flashing with anger.

And there’s the terrifying burst of hope.

I didn’t need the gory details right then, anger and “non-factor” were enough. For the time being. I guess that’s why he was at Babylon on Friday.

“Okay,” I said with a nod. “You hungry? You want breakfast?”

He smiled a relieved smile – not quite his Sunshine smile, but a brighter one than I’d seen in, well, eight months or so – and leaned over the counter, nodding.

I felt my stupid fucking heart swell, and I chuckled, picturing that bit at the end of the Grinch movie. I turned back to the fridge to hide the embarrassingly goofy grin I knew was on my face—I mean, to grab the eggs.

I could feel things changing between us, and I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but, well.

Too fucking late for that. 

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments and kudos!


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